


A Foggy Day (in London Town)

by kittenpiano039



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 22:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenpiano039/pseuds/kittenpiano039
Summary: Please leave comments for what you think about this! :)





	A Foggy Day (in London Town)

When you wake up, he is already gone. You know this without looking, and this knowing again makes you frustrated. You manage to convince yourself it’s just what came with the package. No, you do not regret your choice, though you do have the right to be frustrated. Or do you?  
  
You sigh and stretch an arm onto the still warm sheet. You can feel the shape of him underneath and, smiling, you think, at least he hasn’t been gone for long.  
  
So, when did he leave?  
  
Perhaps living with a detective does mess with a person's mind, as said by what's-his-or-her-name, but you didn’t care then and you don't care now. You are suddenly intrigued to find out what is up with him. Why not start by figuring out when he left? Perhaps then you will be able to find out WHERE>  
  
You go through your list of evidence. Evidence, you catch yourself mid-thought, now you really sound like a detective. This evidence shows this, blah-de-blah-de-blah, you hear him in your head and sigh. Back to business. He couldn’t have left long, since the warmth and the shape of a human being is still there. He couldn’t have left for longer than ten minutes, you estimate, suddenly grateful that he isn’t around to read your mind. Five minutes, he would say quietly, not hiding his loveable but nevertheless annoying cockiness. Given the bed has started to return to its original shape, six minutes, minimum. Rookies tend to underestimate the time. Big mistake. How curious for people like Lestrade to still make such beginner mistakes. When he says this, he would not look at you directly but from the corner of his eyes, anticipating a reaction which he would react indifferently to. Sometimes, when you don’t respond just to tease him, he would roll his eyes and stand up.  
Now, let’s not waste our time on this…  
  
Well, not really a complete waste of time, think you to yourself, with pride, almost. Why, he always leaves undisturbed. Not today. You are going to find out whereabouts of him.  
But just out of curiosity, what woke you up?  
  
You support yourself on elbows and lean against the headboard. It must be the damn door, even though you have no recollection of it. Well, you never remember how you wake up, but that’s not important anyway. What’s important is how long ago he left and—what time is it now?  
  
The burgundy curtains make the light a dark red, which you find unpleasant from time to time. It’s almost like swimming in blood, said he once, a phrase that miraculously coincide with the occasional what’s-in-the-fridge. No, not a headless corpse, though it does make its debut from time to time. It is those little things that he hides in various normal looking packages. Frozen beans, for instance. Just imagine, when you get ready to cook a hearty meal, and a bloody thumb drops into the porcelain bowl. You wanted to change it to navy, but Mrs Hudson won’t allow it. You love her, but sometimes she is as batshit crazy as him on certain matters.  
  
Time. You pull yourself back from your endless train of thoughts. It must be some time between seven and eight, the light through curtains tells you that much. So he is not out for a case. This is too normal a time for him to be out. If it was for a case, he would either be out by five or not out until one in the afternoon. You sigh as you remember that time when he had to deal with this horrible case, and didn’t come home for days. You were worried sick, but felt even sicker as he finally stepped inside the door. You vaguely wished he had stayed missing, that horrendous smell of mixed—  
  
Just thinking about it makes your stomach turn. Focus, said you to yourself. So, what else do you know? He came home last night, tired, but he came home, at least. Not a late-night case, then. You frown. Since he is out at a normal time, and that he doesn’t have a normal job, he is not out for, well, job, too.  
  
When he came home last night he looked okay. He always had that frown on his face, that permanent wrinkle between his eyebrows that you want to smooth out every day. But he wouldn’t be the same Sherlock without it, not to you. Or, he wouldn’t be the same Sherlock to everyone else, really. You know the effect of erasing a trace from someone’s face. It is no small change, even just a mole would feel like something missing. You would hate that. The wrinkle stays. Let it be, just as things are.  
  
Maybe just change this habit of going out unannounced.  
  
You roll over to your side, now cold. You shiver as your bare skin touch the icy sheet. I really need to fix the heating in this apartment, thought you, unaware that you excluded him in the pronoun. It used to be ‘we’. No, it was always ‘me’ and ‘you’ when it came to house chores. He was absent, or absentminded whenever you need to change a lightbulb. Just to think, the greatest detective ever lived getting electric shocked three times in a row.  
  
He is out no more than ten minutes, to see Lestrade. If it’s a case he would go see John, if it’s a day off he would go see the police. He is bored, as usual, and wants to solve a murder or something just to laugh at the police.  
  
You are satisfied enough with your explanation. Case closed. Now it’s time to get up for work.  
  
The door to bathroom clicks, and you freeze. You smell the familiar mix of tobacco with shampoo. ‘Oh, you’re up,’ says he, lazily walking over to your side of bed, plopping down beside you. ‘Good, I’m hungry.’  
  
‘Am I your nanny?’  
  
He doesn’t even respond. One hand drying his hair with a towel, one hand on his knee, he yawns. He hasn’t noticed the frustration on your face, then, and you feel both relieved and disappointed.  
‘You thought I was out,’ says he. You almost jump at this statement, but manages to keep your cool, just barely.  
  
‘Of course not,’ you lie, knowing that he will see through it right away.  
  
‘C’mon, you sat in the same position for at least five minutes--mind you, it's not good for your back, this position--so you must be thinking. And you just told me two days ago that your boss seems to like you, so it can’t be work issues. You didn’t drink last night, not hangover headache—’  
  
‘Sherlock,’ you say warningly, but cannot help but smile. ‘I hate you.’  
  
‘No,’ he whispers, leaning in until you are just inch away. ‘You love me.’  
  
He kisses you. And you have never felt better on a morning.

**Author's Note:**

> You made it! :) Well, this is kind of my first work on Sherlock, so please don't hesitate to give me your thoughts...I'm planning on writing other short stories like this, just for fun and light reading. Please keep in touch :)


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